


Faites que ça Compte

by rei_c



Series: Le Monde de Perique [2]
Category: Actor RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Magic, Mardi Gras, New Orleans, Voodoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 09:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3687816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff is 22 and with graduation right around the corner, this is going to be his last Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Better make it count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faites que ça Compte

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel/sequel to [Laissez le Bon Temps Roulez](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3687753), taking place in the late '80s. Also, this is not to meant to encourage people to have unprotected sex with strangers that may or may not be real in the name of magic or permanent residence in New Orleans. Just...thought I should put that out there. 
> 
> Perfect song to listen to, even though it's not jazzy/bluesy/NOLA-y: [Lisa Hall - Is This Real](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2J_OsOzPZhE).

Faites que ça Compte  
 _Make it Count!_  


Jeffrey Dean Morgan -- known to most of his friends as Jeff, his variety of ex-girlfriends and -boyfriends as JD, sex god, or asshole, and his parents as Jeffy, no matter how many times he asks them not to call him that, please, god, mom -- sighs. He's twenty-two and a senior at Tulane, and this is his fourth and final Mardi Gras in New Orleans. The last float of Rex has moved out of his sight and the crowd gathered here on Canal starts to disperse, slowly. Jeff knows how they feel; it's cold but something about watching Rex roll by is always magical and always tragic, signaling how close they are to the end of the season. One more night, one more party, and then Mardi Gras's over, beads and masks and floats put away, no more Indians and coconuts and giant, spontaneous potlucks in front gardens and on porches.

"Aw, it ain't that bad," Mary-Lou tells him, hooking an arm through the crook of his elbow, squeezing him tight. "Come on, JD, lighten up. Our last Mardi Gras, we might as well make it count."

Mary-Lou's always had a good head on her shoulders; it's no wonder they didn't work out. She's right, though. If this is going to be his last Mardi Gras, and it looks like that's the case since he didn't make the grad school cut, he better get as much out of it as he can. 

He leans over, plants a kiss on Mary-Lou's wavy brown hair, and says, "You're right, like always. So. What's next on the agenda?" 

"Jambalaya at Hil's, then a nap," she says. "Gotta make sure we're fed, watered, and rested up for tonight." 

Jeff grins, glances in the direction of Bourbon, and then leads Mary-Lou the other way, back into the Garden District. "Amen, sister." 

She elbows him, says, "Some of them things we got up to, you better be glad I ain't your sister," and they laugh as they walk. 

 

Hilarie's another of Jeff's ex-girlfriends; she's a loud, feisty slip of a girl who's a New Orleans native and swears she has voodoo blood in her line, way back when. Jeff loved her for the three months they were together, not just for the sex, which was amazing, and her cooking, which was even better, but because of who she is and, just a little, because she was a link to New Orleans that Jeff craved. Every time they had sex, he felt like he was fucking the city, its history, and she knew that, he thinks, knew that he loved her for more than just herself, but for her history and her home and her bloodline. 

The break-up was pretty vicious but thankfully she did forgive him after a while and has since hooked up with one of the guys that Jeff had an on-again, off-again thing with his sophomore year. They make a good couple, have even invited Jeff to join them in bed a few times, and they open their home off Lowerline for every holiday, major, minor, or invented. Jeff expects them to marry once they graduate and, like always when he comes over, he kisses Hilarie on the cheek and asks, "Got the ring yet?"

Like always, she punches him on the arm and says, "Told you a million times, JD, you'll be the first to know when I do. Now get inside and get yourself some jambalaya before it all disappears. Swear to the lady 'Zulie herself, y'all'll eat a woman outta house and home." 

"Don't see a woman here," Jeff teases. "Just a firecracker."

Hilarie sticks out her tongue at him, then swears and slaps a dishcloth at his chest. She pauses in the process of shooing him away, though, and tilts her head, frowning. 

"What?" Jeff asks. "I got something on my face?"

"Naw, JD," Hilarie says, slowly. "Just. You got a plan for the night? Heading down to the Quarter, maybe?"

It's Jeff's turn to frown and he steps back toward her, asks, "How'd you know that, Hil?"

"A guess," she says. "Always told you, intention's written all over your face, 'specially to someone like me. You gonna wear the mask I made you? 'Cause I think maybe it'd be better to leave it at home, the way you been talking lately. Safer."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Jeff asks. He's seen Hilarie like this a few times, not many but enough to know that when she gets that fey look in her eyes, he'd better listen. Times like these, he thinks maybe there _was_ voodoo in her ancestry and that it skipped everyone else after her mambo great-great-great-grandmother to land, full-force, in her. "Hil, talk to me, here. What're you seeing? What do you know?"

Hilarie shakes her head, and when she opens her eyes again, the knowing look is gone, replaced by something slightly afraid, mostly sad. "Wear the mask if you like. Go to the Quarter if you're brave or stupid enough," she says, brushing past him. "But when he finds you, think before you answer, JD. I know that ain't you, but you got a chance, here, and only one answer if you wanna take it with both hands."

Jeff frowns, stands outside a little longer, then lets out a sigh and follows Hilarie inside. He stays for a couple hours, has a few beers to go along with the jambalaya and cornbread and pie, but he doesn't see Hilarie again the rest of the afternoon. 

 

He takes a nap, sleeps until it's been dark for a few hours already, then rolls out of bed with a spring in his step. Jeff smiles as the noise of parties outside filters in through his badly-insulated windows; there's a huge shindig on campus and everyone who lives off-campus is having house parties as well. Most of his friends are staying around here but Jeff's aching for something more. He hasn't gotten laid yet this year and granted, it's only the middle of February, but still, that's too long for his taste. He's not on the prowl, exactly, but if an opportunity presents itself, he's not going to turn it down. 

With a steady hand and WWOZ on the radio, he cleans up and dresses, then paints eyeliner around his eyes, glosses his lips, and takes out his Mardi Gras markers, colors in various shades of green, gold, and purple, along with a glittering black. Jeff does a few shots as he draws loops and curls all over his arms, up his neck and down his wrists, half henna wedding pattern and half veve, decorative more than anything. His hand is steady and the drawings make him look exotic, especially combined with the way the eyeliner is bringing out the gleam in his eyes, the hunger lurking on his lips. 

That done, Jeff picks up the mask on his desk and thinks for a moment. The mask is beautiful, a true work of art, handcrafted by Hilarie before they started dating, with fabric and feathers and gorgeous silver stitching, not to mention tiny little drop-lines of sequins and beads hanging from the ribbons that tie around Jeff's head. He knows that tourists will never have seen something like it before and that it has the magnetic ability to draw in anyone; Jeff has been planning on wearing it ever since Epiphany, when he was sitting in mass and thought that maybe this year he should party in the Quarter. 

Hilarie's warning, though -- Jeff should take it seriously and he does, before picking up the mask and heading for the door. A chance, she said. He's always been good at games of chance. He's always been one lucky son-of-a-bitch. 

 

He can hear the noise by the time he gets off the streetcar at Canal and Carondelet along with a throng of tourists, judging by the clothes and the beads they're wearing. Jeff's remarkably underdressed compared to them, in jeans and boots and a Tulane t-shirt, but he has Hilarie's mask in one hand, and with the makeup and the inked-on drawings, so bright against his winter-pale skin, he looks nothing like them. No one will mistake him for a tourist. He stretches, feels the joints in his elbows and shoulders pop, and shivers just a little. It's too cold for a t-shirt, especially with the breeze coming off the river, but he'll warm up once he starts drinking and dancing. 

Jeff's looking forward to it. With a smile on his face that's nothing but predatory, he ties the mask on, makes sure the hanging beads and sequins aren't twisted, and crosses the neutral ground into the _Vieux Carré_.

 

He has a credit card and a couple hundred in cash in one back pocket but Jeff's down here all the time and he knows he looks good; he's not expecting to have to pay for much. Almost as soon as he's poured back his first couple shots, he sees someone from school and they raise an eyebrow, hold up a hand. Jeff grins, gets three tabs of acid from the guy, and takes one right away on his path to the next bar. 

It doesn't take long for the acid to hit, not with the alcohol already present in Jeff's bloodstream. He feels his body wake up, knows his eyes gleam brightly through the holes in the mask, and the Quarter slowly unfolds in front of him, rippling in gorgeous waves that gleam silver and gold. He can see through some of the buildings to their older roots and he starts to come across more and more things that haven't been on these streets in years: galleries that fell centuries ago, beautiful women in tight corsets and long skirts, smugglers spending Jean Lafitte's money and high-class gentlemen heading down to Storyville. 

Time loses meaning as all of the Quarter seems to exist at once; a raucous, wet, and dirty place filled with hurricanes and tourists and plague, with sex and joy and muggy, humid heat. Jeff grins, seeing it, and bows at the waist to a light-skinned quadroon wearing a vibrant red dress that highlights the rubies and diamonds glittering at her neck and her ears. She flutters a fan and a coquettish smile at him and Jeff laughs, turning in place to watch her move. 

When he turns back around, the street pulsing beneath his feet, he stops, breath caught in his throat as he lays eyes on the most beautiful man he's ever seen before. Younger than Jeff, though hopefully not by much, golden even though it's been a harsh winter, long-limbed and coltish -- but judging by the skintight jeans and the leather vest, he belongs in Jeff's own time. 

"Please tell me you're real," Jeff says, once he's close to the other man and his fingers are stroking the other man's hair in a gentle line from scalp to shoulder. "And what your name is."

The man laughs, turns his face into Jeff's hand and kisses Jeff's palm. "I'm Jared," the man says. "What's yours?" 

Jeff's other hand rests on Jared's hip and he brushes the skin over Jared's hipbone with three knuckles. Jared's hot, hotter than Jeff, and so ridiculously sexy that it takes Jeff's breath away. "JD," he says, because he knows _exactly_ what he wants to do with Jared. "You legal? Look kinda young to be partying here." 

"Legal enough," Jared says, and he gives Jeff this look that melts Jeff right down to liquid want. Jared's eyes are dark pools of hazel-highlighted water and Jeff watches, groan trapped in his throat, as Jared's lips part, letting his tongue out to swipe at his lower lip, leaving it glistening. "But c'mon, no way is your name JD." Jared leans forward, breath teasing the skin of Jeff's ear, and says, "Tell me your name, _cher_. Wanna know what I'm gonna be screaming out later." 

"Jeff. Jeffrey," even though no one ever calls him that. It's the only answer Jeff can give, though, getting lost in Jared's eyes, the deep midnight pull of them with all of the Quarter's history around him. His head swims and he looks away, flush rising on his cheeks; everyone and everything he sees, real or not, is sparking fireworks, lines of flame tracing behind them as they move and flicker. Jared doesn't, when Jeff looks back at him, libido under tight control -- he's the only one, the only thing. 

Jeff should be scared but he's intrigued more than anything, that and so very turned on. 

"Why are you so different, huh?" Jeff asks, as he sways on unsteady feet. 

Jared grins, coming closer, close enough to slide his hips against Jeff's and put his hands in Jeff's back pockets, squeezing Jeff's ass lightly. "It's 'cause I'm special, _cher_ ," Jared murmurs. Somehow, even through the noise, Jeff can hear Jared just fine. "And so are you, to find me like this."

Nothing makes sense except Jared. Every single one of Jeff's cells, even the air in his lungs, is pulled toward Jared like a hound on the trail of its quarry, scent strong and prey in sight. There's no one else, nothing else, for Jeff, except Jared. 

"You wanna get out of here?" Jeff asks. "My place isn't close but the streetcar's running all night. We can make out, maybe get kicked off for public indecency." 

Jared smiles, brushes his lips across Jeff's jaw. "We gotta stay for the magic, _cher_. And after that, I'll take you back to mine, okay? It's just a couple blocks down; it'll give us more time to fuck."

The night's young but if Jared wants to stay, then they'll need all the time they can get, later. Jeff grins at Jared, hopelessly lost already, and says, "Sure. We'll stay as long as you want. Just as long as I get to fuck you." 

"Deal," Jared says. "You can fuck me all night and forever." 

Jeff laughs at that, watching as the city contracts in his peripheral vision to the size of a pinprick, then explodes back to normal size as a sheen of mist clouds over everything, turning the buildings and people hazy and indistinct. "Forever's a long time, Jared. Let's start with tonight and see how it goes, okay?" 

Something in Jared's eyes changes at that, the intensity turning narrow-eyed and bloodthirsty. It makes Jeff shiver, not in a good way, because the venomous look in Jared's eyes promises death, and for a split-second, Jeff wonders what the hell he's gotten himself into, what he said to turn Jared from the sensual creature that all of Rue Bourbon seemed to worship to something out of nightmares and horror stories. 

Only for an instant, though, and maybe he imagined it, something brought on from the acid, because Jared grins, loose and easy, and says, "Maybe you'll change your mind," as he takes his hands from Jeff's back pockets and runs his fingers along Jeff's waist, under the t-shirt, fingernails dancing lightly over Jeff's skin. 

"Maybe," Jeff allows, because strange things have happened but nothing like this before. 

 

They dance, get lost in the crowd and the music, and Jeff eventually closes his eyes and gives himself up to the night. He's dropped acid before, enjoys the way it expands his perceptions and lets him get a glimpse of entire worlds he never knew existed even though he lives on their borders, but this is different, one step further. As he twirls and laughs and moves, he can feel himself dissolving into the sky, parts of him stuck to every drop of moisture in the air, until he's New Orleans and New Orleans is him, symbiotic, connected. Jeff would weep with the feeling but instead he laughs because this might be his last Mardi Gras in the city but it's not the city's last Mardi Gras, and he'll be here, part of it, forever. 

He loses himself completely, any and all sense of identity, until the only thing even reminding him that he has to breathe to stay alive is Jared, the leather and sweat smell of him in the air, the chocolate and cherry taste of him on Jeff's tongue even though they haven't even kissed. 

Jeff wants him -- or maybe it's the city that wants him, it's impossible to tell, as twined up as they are together, but it's the beat of his heart and the rhythm of the pavement beneath his feet: Jared, Jared, Jared. 

"Giving me life, _cher_ ," Jared purrs, a solid line of heat behind Jeff. Jeff tilts his head back, lets it rest against Jared, lets Jared hold him up. "Makin' me real."

Nothing about this is real. Nothing, except Jared's fingertips ghosting over the crotch of Jeff's jeans, barely enough pressure to feel but, oh, the pressure that's there is enough to have Jeff panting for more. He's never rolled over for anyone before, no matter how much he's enjoyed having a finger or two up his ass when he's getting blown, but he thinks he would for Jared. He knows he would. 

"Don't have to," Jared tells him -- and did Jeff say that out loud? He must have, because how else would Jared have known what he was thinking, when Jeff and the Quarter are the same throbbing entity, and when Jared is different, separate, somehow from them. "Want you in me, _cher_ , every which way you wanna do it, just as long as it ends up with you spillin' inside me. Want you to fill me up, Jeff, like you ain't never come before." 

"Fuck." It's the only thing Jeff can say, hearing those words drip from Jared's mouth right into the shell of Jeff's ear. He wants it, he wants it _now_. "Tell me -- soon," he says, and even though his eyes are closed he can see the Quarter saying it with him, begging for it with him, colors going bright and iridescent around them. 

Jared laughs; Jeff and the Quarter shiver in unison. Jeff opens his eyes and he can tell when the people around him are from because the living ones are still partying and the others -- the others have all stopped where they are, what they're doing, and are watching the two of them like nothing else exists. 

"Soon, _cher_ ," Jared promises. "Soon." 

 

They whirl their way through the crowd, laughing and drinking, and drop Jeff's last two tabs of acid. At some point, Jeff loses his shirt; it's not warm enough to go without but with the acid heating him up from the inside and Jared making the surface of his skin sizzle, he doesn't even care. They move up and down Bourbon, swept along by the others, first on their way toward Conti, then back to Orleans. No matter which way Jeff looks, no matter how weird and strangely beautiful his vision spins, Jared is right there, front-and-center, taking all of Jeff's attention for himself, away from the city. 

Jeff can't do more than watch and want, even as Jared sambas away from him, first stepping into a waltz with a severe matron who pulls the pins out of her bun when Jared dips her to the rhythm of her wards' giggles, then kicking up his heels in a jig with a pair of laughing, redheaded sisters, mud at the bottom of their skirts and a flush on their cheeks. 

Jared is mesmerizing, hypnotic, as he dances with people from the last five hundred years, people who have lived and died already, that Jeff can see but no one else notices, no one except Jared. Jeff's never found anyone who sees the city like he does when he's on acid but it doesn't surprise him that Jared can. If anyone could see through Jeff's eyes or read his mind or fit, so very well, into his acid-driven hallucinations of history, it would be Jared. 

He's perfect -- far too perfect to be hanging around with someone like Jeff, partying here in his ratty jeans, with his average GPA and his inability to get into grad school, much less decide what he's going to do with his life now. 

Jared finishes a solemn dance with a woman drenched in white fabrics and wearing so many pearls that they're even sewn into her parasol and comes back to Jeff, licks up the side of Jeff's neck and leaves a bitemark bruise blooming in the skin behind Jeff's ear. 

"Perfect for me, _cher_ ," he says, and grinds against Jeff as the music around them changes, goes lower and darker and dirtier, turning the crowd into a pounding mass of flesh and blood. "Perfect for the city, for the Quarter, for me. You ain't never gotta leave, Jeff, not if you don't wanna. We'll keep you forever, if you keep me."

It's what Jeff wants. He wants to stay here forever because New Orleans has become home over the last four years; this was the first place he ever stepped foot into, let out a deep breath he hadn't known he'd been carrying, and felt like he'd made it, found it, the place for him, where he fit like nothing else. He wants to agree with Jared, promise he'll stay, swear to keep Jared, but he's got to leave, got to rip himself away at the end of the semester and go plant his life somewhere else, can't stay no matter how much he wants to. 

He can imagine it, though: a lifetime of parties on Bourbon, days where he does nothing except fuck Jared and drink café au laits, all the jambalaya and red beans and rice and gumbo and fried 'gator he can eat, the streets of the Quarter beneath his feet and the taste of the river the only thing in his nostrils besides the smell of wet, muggy heat and Jared. 

He wants it so badly. He knows it's just not possible. 

"Sure it is," Jared tells him, the words their own siren song. Jeff wants to believe, so much. "You got the power, _cher_. You can make it happen."

Jeff laughs, incredulous, because he's twenty-two and he can't make anything happen. What Jared's offering, it's ridiculous, and he doesn't have the authority to offer it anyway. 

Jared looks at him, smile gone, light blossoming in his eyes at Jeff's challenge, and says, "All you gotta do is agree, Jeffrey."

Suddenly exhausted beyond belief, like Jeff's not arguing with Jared but with the back corner of his own mind given voice and irresistable body, Jeff gives Jared a weak smile and says, "Mardi Gras, Jared. Let's wait to have the deep conversations until we're sober."

"Sure," Jared says, but something about the shine of his teeth in the light of the Quarter sends chills down Jeff's spine.

 

Even though Jeff's got two tabs of acid running through him, keeping him wired, expanding his vision and making things sparkle and dance in the corners of his eyes, he takes another when Jared offers it to him. He washes the taste down with a beer, then a couple shots of cheap whiskey, and the world's pulsating in lazy waves when Jared takes his hand and drags him to the middle of the intersection at Bourbon and St. Louis. 

"Don't wanna miss it," Jared tells him, as they stand there, pressed together, swaying as one. "Trust me."

Jeff has no idea what Jared's talking about but he's high and drunk; he doesn't really care. They wait and the crowd around them, people from all eras, everyone with the same strange look in their eyes -- one that mirrors the look in Jared's -- start counting down from sixty. When they finally hit zero, they scream, an ululating noise that grows in volume and pitch both, sounding like nothing human. Jeff opens his eyes when the noise begins and he sees a crashing wave of magic come roaring at them from the direction of Esplanade. He wants to run away from it but he doesn't have the energy and Jared is holding him there, facing down the magic as it breaks around them. 

The magic hits and Jeff howls. He's burning alive from the inside as the magic wraps around him and then digs in past skin and bone, searching out something that Jeff knows isn't there. He screams and then the scream stutters, turns to an animalistic groan as the magic fills his dick and coaxes his senses into overdrive. 

Jeff opens his eyes and stares at Jared, who's fucking _glowing_ ; Jeff's sure that the glow isn't a result of the drugs or the alcohol, it's Jared, and isn't that just a kick in the nuts. "What's happening?" he asks, arching his back as the slightest touch of air on his skin sends Jeff's mind wild with need, like every part of him has been reborn as an erogenous zone and he's ready to fuck, desperate for it. 

"The most magical night of the year in the most magical city in the world," Jared says, and the smile on his lips is hungry, ready to devour. "Y'ever think what that means, _cher_ , or you just accept it?" 

"Accept it," Jeff says, and it hurts to think, hurts to talk, hurts to breathe, when all he wants to do is bury himself in Jared, give himself up this man the way he gave himself up to the night, to the party, to the Quarter. "No need to -- to -- can we go?"

Jared laughs and the noise goes straight to Jeff's dick. "Sure, Jeff. C'mon with me." 

He offers his hand. Jeff stares at it and then, god help him, takes it. 

 

Jared leads Jeff upriver toward Canal and turns at Iberville. They don't go very far before ducking between two houses, going down a plant-covered path to the back and a staircase leading up. The staircase is old and looks half-rotten, creaks under their combined weight, but Jeff doesn't care, can't bring himself to mind, not when Jared's still holding his hand and is pulling him up. The view of his ass in skintight jeans should be illegal; Jared's ass is amazing, perfect, and Jeff can't wait to get his hands on it, in it, his mouth and tongue and teeth and dick. 

Jared laughs, a low sound that goes right to Jeff's dick, and says, "Soon 'nough, _cher_. We're here."

He throws open a door at the top of the staircase and lets go of Jeff's hand, stepping inside. Jeff follows, can't do anything but follow, and when he's inside, when Jared closes the door behind him, he stares. 

The room is practically empty, save a couch and a chaise lounge in matching fabric and a coffee table made of wrought iron and glass. The walls are painted a white so pure that Jeff almost needs sunglasses to look at them, but the heavy brocade curtains covering the windows are a relief, so dark against the brightness of the walls. There are ten, maybe twelve Carnivale masks on the walls, and those take Jeff's breath away, all of them handmade, hand-painted and hand-crafted, like the one he's wearing, except these are bigger, brighter, bolder. 

Jeff takes one step closer to the nearest mask, intent on looking at it up close because he thinks he sees patterns sewn into it with gold thread, but the carpet sinks beneath his feet and he looks down. Black -- or, no, a blue so dark that it might as well be black, and soft, so very giving. This is a far cry from any student dorm or apartment; everything in here, with its understated and yet so decadent luxury, screams of money. 

"Like it?" Jared asks, and just like that, Jeff's attention is drawn away from the room, the masks, the carpet, focused back on Jared like nothing else exists. He watches, mouth dry and chest aching, as Jared sinks to his knees in front of Jeff, starts undoing the laces on one of Jeff's boots. 

"It's beautiful," Jeff says, and then, "What are you doing?"

Jared looks up at him, dirty promise etched into his eyes and the curve of his smile. "Thought maybe you'd like to stay a while, _cher_ ," he purrs. "Thought maybe I'd help you with that. Can I take your shoes off, Jeff?"

As much as Jeff wants to sink his feet into the carpet, feel the give and cushion between his toes, he knows what Jared's asking and what it heralds. Once the shoes come off, everything else will as well, Jeff knows this like he knows himself, like he knows the city. The Quarter shivers in his veins, pushing a slow, "'Course," out of his mouth, even if Jeff himself was still thinking it over, trying to decide, now that he's here, if sex is really the best option. 

Of course it is. Of course it's what he wants. It's the only thing he's wanted since the moment he laid eyes on Jared. 

It's just -- there's something holding him back, some small piece of animal instinct buried in the back of his mind, focused only on self-preservation. And what he's just agreed to, there's no promise of survival in it. 

Still, when Jared's finished untying the shoe, loosens the laces and takes it off, slides off Jeff's sock next and then rubs Jeff's foot, even that tiny voice is silenced. Jared's hands are -- nothing in the world could ever be as magical as Jared's hands. They rub his sole, caress his heel, and tickle the spaces between his toes until Jeff's curling his foot in the carpet and offering the other foot, still clad in shoe and sock, to Jared. 

"Wanna get my mouth 'round your dick," Jared says, as he's taking off the other boot and tossing it to the side. "Can't wait to taste you, _cher_ , see if you taste as good as you smell. Gonna let me blow you? Gonna fuck my mouth, Jeff?"

"Shit," Jeff breathes, as Jared, done pulling off Jeff's other sock, rubs his face in Jeff's crotch, hands sliding up Jeff's legs to rest on Jeff's hips. "Are you -- I wanna fuck you, Jared." 

Jared grins, says, "Want that, too, yeah, want it so much. Don't wanna waste time with my mouth, that what you're thinking? You just wanna get to the fucking, _cher_ , fuck me so hard you'll split me in two, that what you want? Bet you're gonna feel so good in me." 

Jeff swallows, has to lick his lips before he can say, "Yeah." There's no other answer he can give, not when his dick's testing the strength of his jeans. "Lemme fuck you, then we can -- god, where's the bedroom?" 

Jared leans back, calculating look in his eyes, and says, "You sure you can make it to the bedroom, _cher_? Could start out here, what do you think: me on my hands and knees on this carpet? Or bent over the couch, ass just hanging out there for you? You really want a bed that bad?"

God, Jared is -- he has to be the devil, right? Talking like that, putting all those thoughts and images into Jeff's head, so clearly that he can almost feel his toes digging into the carpet as he pounds into Jared, can almost feel Jared's skin beneath his teeth and hands as he works his way inside Jared's ass. It's more than compelling, it's like a straight line to Jeff's hindbrain, until he can't think of anything except Jared and sex, _now, now, now_. 

"Bed," he says, and wishes he could sound firm but the word comes out shaky, desperate with need. "Wanna -- wanna see your face when you come." 

The grin that spreads across Jared's lips and travels up to his eyes is magnetic. Jeff can't look away. "I'll beg and smile real pretty for you, _cher_ ," Jared purrs. "You ain't never had anyone like me before. Ain't never have to again, if it's what you want. I'll be yours as long as you want me."

Jeff wants to laugh off the offer, wants to brush away Jared's words as the over-emotional effect of too much acid, too much liquor, too much magic. He can't, though. Jared's earnest, for all that he's turning tip-tilted eyes, cunning and sly and feral and all too sexy, up at Jeff, looking at Jeff through his bangs. Jared -- he thinks Jared actually _means_ it. 

"Fuck," Jeff says, voice uneven, breath unsteady. "You're not real, Jared. You can't possibly be real. Get -- get up here, god, I want your mouth," and he takes Jared's hands, pulls Jared up. Jeff moves to untie the ribbons of Hilarie's mask but Jared gently bats Jeff's hands away, sliding his fingers against Jeff's, and he reaches, unties the knot by touch. 

It brings their faces close together, barely apart, and Jeff breathes in Jared's smell, exhales and would swear that Jared is breathing him in, until Jared murmurs, "Taste so good, _cher_. Could just eat you up."

Jared isn't moving fast enough with the mask; once the knot is undone, Jeff practically rips it off, throwing it to one side. He'll apologise to Hilarie for the rough treatment later but he wants to touch Jared, wants to get his mouth on Jared's, wants to find out how dirty Jared's mouth is from the inside. 

They kiss -- if this hungry, needy, violent act could ever simply be a kiss. Jeff is plundering Jared's mouth like it's something he's owed and has been denied for the length of his entire life. His hands are on Jared's hips, pressing bruises and marks of possession into Jared's tanned skin, leaving imprints of Jeff's wanton desire all over Jared. 

Jared's not surrendering, not giving in or giving up; he fights just as much as Jeff, clawing his nails down Jeff's back, drawing blood in such pleasure-pain filled scratches that Jeff hisses into Jared's mouth and pulls Jared closer. 

Jeff kisses Jared until he can't breathe anymore, then for a little longer, until he has to pull back, panting. His eyes catch on Jared's lips, puffy and red and kiss-bruised, and Jeff reaches up, runs his thumb over Jared's bottom lip. Jared lets his tongue dart out, caress the curve of Jeff's thumbnail, and Jeff shivers, can't help it. 

"Taste like chocolate," Jeff murmurs. Jared parts those sinful lips and Jeff slides his index finger into Jared's mouth, lets Jared suck and nip and bite at his finger. "And cherries. Something else, too," he says. "Jesus, you taste so good." 

"Think I'm the one should be saying that," Jared says, letting Jeff pull his finger out with a wet pop. "Got you in me, _cher_ , 'nd you taste like the only thing I ever wanna eat, but it's not enough. I want more, _cher_ , Jeff. You gonna give me more?" 

Jeff grins, knows his eyes have gone dark, pupils flared with lust, and licks his lips before saying, "Where's your bedroom." 

 

Jared takes him by the hand, skin burning under Jeff's touch, and leads Jeff to a doorway set back in the wall. The door frame's painted white to match the walls but someone's stencilled curving golden lines and circles onto it that bring to mind a child's faerie tale, winding metal ivy growing magical golden apples. It's so simple and yet so beautiful, mirrors perfectly the colour Jared was glowing earlier, out on the street. When Jeff tears his eyes away from the twining golden lines and looks into the bedroom, he laughs again. The golden colour is everywhere, from the blankets and pillows to the billowing curtains of fabric hanging down from the four-posted bed. 

"Somethin' funny, _cher_?" 

Jeff turns, and the smile drops from his lips as he drinks in the sight of Jared, naked, standing there with one hip cocked out and his dick hard, dripping already. His throat goes dry even as he starts to salivate, desperate to get his mouth on every inch of that sun-kissed and magic-blessed skin, to draw his teeth across the planes of Jared's hipbones and the smooth curves of his thighs. 

"Golden," Jeff says, and he's amazed at his ability to say even that much. He never thought he'd be made speechless by the sight of someone else's naked body, has a reputation for being a playboy who's always in control of himself, but jesus, just looking at Jared has his brain stuttering to make any kind of sense. "Matches you, I guess. Pretending to be royalty, Jared? Rex of Mardi Gras?" 

Jared's grin lights up the room. "Rex of the Quarter, maybe," he says, running one hand down his hip and wrapping his fingers, those long, elegant piano-player's fingers, around his dick, jerking once, twice, thrice. 

Rex of the Quarter, fuck, Jared could be king of the world if everyone saw him like this -- not that Jeff wants to share this madness with anyone else. He scrambles to get out of his clothes, as naked as Jared, and while he's tripping out of his jeans in haste, Jared saunters over to a turntable in the corner that Jeff hadn't noticed at first, moving with a predator's easy grace as if he has no care at all in the world, even nude. 

Jeff doesn't recognise the music Jared puts on; it sounds a little like the voice of Son House mixed with an old-style call-and-response chant. There's no singing but there are drums, an intense pounding rhythm that echoes in the base of Jeff's skull and Jeff prides himself on knowing as much about blues and jazz and zydeco as any Cajun but he's never heard anything like this before. 

"Who's that?" he asks, as Jared steps back from the record player. 

"That really what you wanna be talking about?" Jared asks, and as he turns in place, Jeff can see him wearing a smirk, something that speaks of amusement but also impatience, something that makes the prowling walk back to Jeff seem interminable. He gets close to Jeff, who's frozen in place, unable to do anything but let his eyes feast on the sight Jared makes, then leans forward, lips moving against Jeff's as he asks, "Thought you wanted me in bed, _cher_? Thought you wanted inside me. You really wanna be spending our time talkin' 'bout the music I like to get fucked to?" 

It's not a kiss but Jeff turns it into one, using Jared's hair to tug Jared closer. At the first touch of their dicks against each other, Jeff gasps, feels need burning in his belly, heart thumping in time to the music. Jared takes advantage, wrapping one of his hands around them both, stroking lightly, just enough hint of nail for Jeff to pull back from Jared's all-too-intoxicating mouth and say, breathless, " _Bed_." 

Jared smiles and, with his hand still curled around Jeff's dick, leads Jeff across the room and over to the bed. It's ridiculous, Jeff should feel ridiculous, because he's been accused of being led by his dick before but not like this, never like this. He can't fight, though, can't resist Jared's touch or smell or taste, can't fight the desire pulsing through him the same way the lights and tempo of the Quarter did earlier. 

 

The blankets are soft, rich, when Jeff runs his hand over them, watching as Jared climbs on top of the bedding and arranges the pillows under him, around him, like he's posing for the next Rembrandt. Jeff just stares, standing there, drinking in the sight of all that skin against lush golden fabrics, until Jared beckons a finger, spurring Jeff into action. He gets onto the bed, knees sinking into the blankets, as he kneels between Jared's spread legs, harder than he's been in his entire life. 

"How we gonna do this, _cher_?" Jared asks, fingers of one hand playing in the trail of hair leading down from his navel, the other hand propped behind his head, showing off the lean lines of his arm and torso. "You gonna warm me up or just work your way in? Either way, Jeff, Jeffrey, I wanna feel it tomorrow, wanna feel the burn of you fucking me for days."

If this is his last Mardi Gras, Jeff's going to make it count -- and if this is the only night he gets with Jared, Jeff's going to make this count as well, twice as much. He reaches out, runs a finger around Jared's hole, and then dips his fingertip inside. It's a push; Jared's tight and hot around his finger, and Jeff bites back a groan at the thought of what that's going to feel like around him. 

"There's feeling it tomorrow," Jeff says, "and then there's making you bleed. That what you want, Jared? You in this for the pain?" 

Jared laughs and somehow the sound is a perfect spiralling counterpart to the music that Jeff can just barely hear now that the majority of his entire being is focused on Jared, body and breath and soul. "In it for you, _cher_ ," Jared says, looking up at Jeff through long eyelashes, Lolita-tilt to his head, displaying his neck and the mark Jeff left on that column of flesh earlier. "Whatever you want. _Anything_ you want."

He's too perfect to be real. There's no way that -- he can't possibly be real. This is all some strange acid-trip and Jeff's still dancing on Bourbon or maybe he's passed out on the side of the road, dreaming this whole night, because there's no way anyone, any creature, like Jared could possibly exist. "Shit," Jeff breathes out. "Okay. I'm -- okay. You got a condom?" 

"Naw," Jared says, arching his back just enough to make Jeff's brain shutter-stop, like a camera capturing freeze-frame moments in perfect technicolour stills; Jared with one hand on a nipple; Jared with his fingers curled around the base of his cock, Jared throwing his head back, throat bared without a care. "'M clean, _cher_. Just fuck me. Wanna feel your come fill me up and then drip back out, slide down my thighs. _Please_ , Jeff," and Jared's begging so pretty that Jeff almost says to hell with it and dives right in. 

Almost, but he's seen too many of his friends popping AZT lately and even the city's gay figureheads down at Lafitte's are getting laid out by HIV/AIDS at an alarming rate; if the churches would get their heads out of their asses, Jeff'd be going to a funeral every other week, seems like. So no, no matter how beautiful Jared is or how casually Jared takes the threat of a disease that seems to have come out of nowhere and kills everyone who contracts it, Jeff isn't going to stick his dick into Jared's ass without a condom. 

"Lucky for you," Jeff says, "I got one." He scrambles down from the bed, picks up his jeans and pulls out the condom from his back left pocket; thank god he never leaves his apartment without one. When he looks back up at Jared, brandishing the packet in triumph, he pauses, feeling his heart drop at the look on Jared's face. "What," he says, trying to shake off the hypnotic daze of the music and those miles and miles of Jared's body. "You're suddenly not into this because I wanna use a condom? Come on, Jared." 

Jared sits up, fucking _pouts_ , and says, "Thought I said I wanted to feel you in me, _cher_ ," with a tone of voice that makes every hair on Jeff's body stand on end. " _Please_ , Jeff," Jared adds, "please fuck me bare," and Jared was right, he begs so pretty.

Jeff bites his lip hard enough to leave it bleeding. It's the only way he can resist the look on Jared's face, the plea in his voice, to say, "No," because no matter how good Jared is, and Jeff thinks Jared's going to be the best in the world, gambling his life on one amazing fuck isn't worth it. 

The look on Jared's face is enough to break Jeff's heart: devastation, loss, mourning. Jeff doesn't know why, can't figure out why one stingy layer of latex is enough to make Jared seem as if the world has dropped out from under his feet and there's nothing left to hold on to. 

"Hey," Jeff says, quietly, as he gets back on the bed, curves his palm around Jared's cheek. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Jared says, though the smile he forces on his lips makes it evident he's lying. "Just -- I wanna be on top, yeah? Put on that thing and let me ride you, _cher_. Let me get what I can." 

Jeff frowns, wants to know when this all changed, why the mood has collapsed into something soft and hesitant and so close to hopeless rage that Jeff's got tears building at the backs of his eyes, like maybe his body knows something that his mind hasn't grasped yet. Before he can ask, though, Jared leans in close, licks up the sweat from Jeff's neck, and murmurs, right into Jeff's ear, "Will you get on your back for me, Jeff? Will you let me ride you?"

"Yeah," Jeff breathes. "Fuck, Jared, yeah, of course." 

Jared leans back and Jeff opens the wrapper, rolls the condom onto his dick and lets Jared position him on the bed, pillows propping up his neck and head, another under his knees. 

 

Jared doesn't hesitate; he straddles Jeff and positions Jeff's dick at his entrance. "Gonna hurt," Jeff warns Jared, and it's not a comment on his size but rather that Jared hasn't had any stretching and there's hardly any lube on the condom. Jared simply gives Jeff a smile as hard as Jeff's dick and starts to work himself open on Jeff, one hand guiding Jeff inside, the other hooking crescent moons of nails into the centre of Jeff's chest. 

Jeff lays there, takes it, eyes fixed on the picture Jared makes because he wants to remember this for the rest of his life. Jared bites back noises as Jeff sinks further inside and Jeff runs one hand up Jared's thigh, fingertips catching on wiry hair and picking up the trembles of Jared's muscles as he holds himself up, moving slowly, too slowly. 

"Ah, _cher_ ," Jared sighs, and then, Jeff not expecting it at all, Jared lets go of his control and forces himself down the rest of the way, skin-to-skin, in one swift movement. 

"Jesus," Jeff says, gritting his teeth to keep from thrusting upwards, no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much he wants to move them, flip them so Jared's on his back and Jeff can pound into his ass as hard and fast as he wants to. Jared asked for this so Jeff fists his hands in the blanket and looks up at Jared, taking in the light sheen of sweat, the flyaway curls of hair, the manic, _angry_ look burning its way through Jared's eyes. "Jared, shit, you okay?" 

Jared smiles, runs his nails lightly down Jeff's chest before he bends, wrapping his hands around Jeff's neck, thumbs pressing at the hollow in Jeff's throat. The feel of Jared moving around his dick pulls up a groan deep from Jeff's belly, and Jared chuckles at the noise, a quiet noise that still somehow manages to speak of thwarted plans and ice-cold rage. Jared leans, rubs his cheek on Jeff's jaw before licking his way across Jeff's skin and whispering right into Jeff's ear. "Try not to move, _cher_ ," he says, then sucks Jeff's earlobe into his mouth before biting. 

Jeff swears, can't help it, especially when Jared straightens up in the next instant, arches his back, and starts to fuck himself on Jeff's dick. It's all Jeff can do to lay there, to not thrust up into Jared's tight heat, to not roll his hips and meet Jared halfway, to keep from coming. He wants this to last forever, this moment, with Jared viciously wringing out every breath from Jeff's lungs, every drop of need and want and desire from Jeff's veins, with Jared clawing his nails down Jeff's chest even as Jeff fights back the urge to get his hands on Jared, any part of Jared, and brand Jared with his own marks and bruises. 

"Gonna milk everything I can out of you," Jared's saying, when the words filter their way through the pounding in Jeff's head. "Gonna fuck you so good, _cher_ , 'nd you'll always remember me, remember this, won't you. Could've had me forever but this is all you gonna get, all you gonna be able to think about. Ain't nobody else gonna fuck you the way I do, not ever," Jared swears, and he fixes his eyes on Jeff's, lets Jeff drink his fill of the feral hatred in Jared's expression.

"That's it," Jeff murmurs, and his entire body is shaking as he holds himself still. "Fuck yourself on my dick, Jared, come on, god. You're so tight, feel so good, come on, Jared, 'm gonna come, fuck." 

Jared bares his teeth, slams down again, harder than Jeff thought possible, and it wrings an orgasm from Jeff, pulling energy from every inch of his body. It's almost like he can feel the energy spiralling up and out of him, filling up the condom along with his jizz, but it has nowhere to go, gets stalled by the latex and fizzles out, melting back into Jeff's body. 

An instant later, before Jeff has the brainpower to process anything except the force of his climax, Jared lifts up and off of him, leaving Jeff alone on the bed with the mess of the condom loose around Jeff's flaccid cock. 

"Jared, wait," Jeff says, pushing himself up on his elbows. "You didn't -- I'll suck you off."

"Sleep, _cher_ ," Jared says. 

Jeff struggles to sit up a little more, his body sinking into the blankets even as his mind starts to fur over with the need to sleep, like it's finally realised he's had alcohol, drugs, sex, and needs time to recharge. "Are you coming back?"

Jared stops, looks at Jeff over one shoulder, long sweep of his eyelashes stark relief against his skin in the light coming from the main room. "Get some rest," Jared says, and then smiles. His teeth gleam. "You're gonna need it." 

Taking that as a promise, even with the vengeful tone to Jared's words, Jeff returns the grin with a lazy, sated smile of his own, and with guilt licking at the back of his mind and the base of his gut, he falls asleep. 

 

Jeff hums in pleasure, everything in him feeling fucked out, and rolls over. He's expecting to feel Jared next to him and he wonders how long it'll be before Jared's up for round two; instead of Jared, his hand hits empty space. That's strange, shouldn't have happened, not with how massive Jared's bed was, so he opens his eyes and then has to close them again. There's a frisson of panic going up Jeff's spine and he swallows hard, deeply, before he opens his eyes again. 

He's back in his own bedroom, his own apartment. He's alone and he's in his room. 

The phone rings, startling him so much he nearly screams, already on edge from the confusion and worry. He gets up, pulls on some boxers -- he woke up naked, at least, the same way he fell asleep -- and answers the phone. 

"Hello?" 

He turns, looks at his front door, and stares when he sees his clothes there, in a pile, just inside the door. 

"You're alright," Hilarie says. She sounds relieved. "Thank the loa." She pauses, then asks, "You -- you _are_ all right, aren't you?" 

"Something strange is going on, Hil," Jeff says, eyes still fixed on his clothes, the mask resting on top of them. "Really _fucking_ strange." 

Hilarie lets out a sigh and says, "I'd invite you over for breakfast but you're probably gonna be busy, huh?" 

That tears Jeff's eyes away from the clothes. "What? Why would I be busy?" 

"Are you," Hilarie says, then stops. 

"Hil, for fuck's sake, _talk_ to me," Jeff begs. He pulls out his desk chair and sits down heavily, rests his forehead in one palm, and says, "Please, Hil." 

She's quiet for a long moment, long enough that Jeff's on the verge of asking again, but she finally says, "You saw him last night. You went with him. And you said _no_? JD, you -- I can't believe this. Everything you wanted, he had the power to give you. And you said no." 

Jeff's stomach sinks and his heart drops. He doesn't question her, anything she's said; somehow she knows about Jared, knows what they did. "I didn't say no, Hil. I -- we went back to his place and fucked."

"Blood, breath, and come," she murmurs. "Of course you wouldn't give him that. You've become so careful. And now it's too late." 

"It's not too late," Jeff says. She doesn't agree, doesn't disagree, but Jeff can see the look on her face. "No, Hil. It's not too late. I'll -- I can give him that. I can stay." 

Hilarie breathes out a curse and says, again, "JD, it's too late." 

Jeff hangs up on her and tries to calm down but it's a lost and hopeless cause, what with the way his heartbeat is racing and his lungs are working too hard, too fast, making him dizzy and lightheaded. 

 

He gets dressed, throws on the nearest clothes without caring if they're clean or match or even his, and then he races outside, running at top speed towards the Quarter, too impatient and desperate to wait for the streetcar and take forty minutes to get to Canal. 

Jeff runs, spurred on by the last vestiges of a dying hope, and when he gets to Iberville, he stops, stares, breath lost. The houses from last night, the ones they walked between, are gone. It's one single building now, no alleyway, no flower-covered path, and the windows upstairs are open, showing off the upper levels of an art gallery. 

"No," he says. " _No_." 

Hilarie was right. It's too late. He had his chance and when it came, instead of gripping it tight with both hands and letting himself spill into Jared's warmth, he said no, logic over magic, sense over sensuality, mind over heart and soul and body and bone. 

There, alone, on Rue Iberville, Jeff feels himself split open and break apart, and he starts to sob in the middle of the street. 

 

He graduates at the end of the semester; Jeff hasn't gone to any of his classes since Mardi Gras and he barely scrapes a passing grade, but he does graduate. He doesn't walk, doesn't pick up his diploma, doesn't do anything. He's behind on his bills, is getting evicted from his apartment, and all he can think about is Jared. 

If he tries again next Mardi Gras, he might get another chance. Maybe Jared, maybe the Quarter, will give him a second chance. He just has to wait until next year, so he moves into a shotgun cottage in the ninth, gets a job bartending on Bourbon, and waits. 

Jeff will wait as long as it takes.


End file.
